


Don't write this as a tragedy

by stormflame89



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: AU ending, Bittersweet, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-27
Updated: 2021-01-27
Packaged: 2021-03-13 11:40:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29028099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stormflame89/pseuds/stormflame89
Summary: AU ending for Inquisition. Varric had seen enough Heroes to know they burned the candle at both ends. He just didn't expect it to hurt so much. M/M Male inquisitor
Relationships: Male Inquisitor/Varric Tethras
Kudos: 5





	Don't write this as a tragedy

A/N: I do not own Dragon Age and have made no money off of this work.

Hi folks so I loved Dragon age so much and was really sad we couldn’t romance Varric. So I decided to write one except that's not quite how it turned out. Anyways this is a COMPLETELY AU ending to Inquisition and I hope you enjoy it. Oh this story talks about two males in love. Please read and review.

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_ “You might want to consider running at the first opportunity. I’ve written enough tragedies to recognize where this is going. Heroes are everywhere. I’ve seen that. But the hole in the Sky? That’s beyond heroes. We’re going to need a miracle.” _

Those words, Varric’s own on a day that seemed a lifetime ago, echoed in the dwarf’s ears as he stared up at the slight figure of Mahanon perched so high above them. In the soft moon light and the off-green of the ruptured Fade the mage stands, back to them with Corypheus dead at his dainty bare feet, and a laugh bubbled in Varric’s deep chest. It was over and all around them cheers from the surviving members of the Inquisition's forces went up.

The Inquisitor turns then, a wide smile and glowing sea green eyes visible even from the considerable distance at which Varric stands, and he raises his staff high above the shining crown of his star spun hair. The dwarf feels stuck in that moment, caught with the urge to capture the image in writing even as he finds himself at a loss for words. Mahanon was a vision with the glow of victory wreathed around him and Varric finds his mind shifting to other moments where his heart beat so fast in his chest.

He is sitting outside his tent next to the fire in Haven with a notepad at his knee and Mahanon is humming softly next to him, the glow of the fire light casting pale skin in hues of soft gold. They’d not known each other for more than a few days but an easy peace settled loose around their shoulders as they basked in the quiet night. Soft sea green eyes watch him as the young elf, barely old enough to have earned his vallaslin, smiles and asks about Hawke with childlike wonder.

They're in the Herald’s Rest, Mahanon tucked against his side as they drink and sing. Bull’s roar of triumph at another retelling of their latest fight against a Maker-damned Dragon echoes around them and Varric finds his heart tightening as he watches laughter spilling from full lips. The Inquisitor, always seeming to know when the dwarf was watching him, looks at him with sad knowing eyes even as a soft smile replaces the grin that had been there only moments before.

They are alone, seated in the quiet shadows of a dying fire, and Varric can’t remember where they are just that the camp around them is asleep. Mahanon speaks then, his voice soft and fleeting, as he points to the stars above them and names them for him but the dwarf can’t bring himself to look away from the way starlight dots the other’s silver locks. There is the touch of a small, smooth hand against his own larger one which rests between them on the log. It is warm against the cool night air and he doesn’t pull away from the feeling.

Those images pass in front of his eyes and a smile blossoms on his lips as Varric stares at the elf who had just saved them all. He takes a step forward, intent on approaching the rise, when he sees Mahanon blink. Those eyes shutter for a moment and the world stills. Silence, as if all of Thedas holds their collective breaths for a heartbeat or two, surrounds the dwarf. It weighs on him, pressing against the writer from all sides and he watches with dawning horror as the smile slowly falls from full lips. Bianca feels like lead in his hand.

The staff, an ironbark and dawnstone assembly that Varric knows was given to Mahanon by the Tevinter mage who stands to the dwarf’s right, slips from boneless fingers and rolls down the steep incline only moments before a body follows it. He knows there is sound, can feel it shudder in his chest with each arch of that frame as it seems to tumbles achingly slowly down the debris strewn hill he had stood on only moments before and Varric remembers other times when his blood had raced through his ears to deafen the sounds around him.

He hadn’t known anything about the little elf, besides his name and sweet smile, when they first battled the Breach. Hadn’t known anything but his courage when Mahanon stared the Pride Demon down, seeming to glow in the light of the Fade that hung open above their heads as he gave as good as he got. Then it was over and the elf collapsed, the people around them panicked and Varric prayed to a God he didn’t even believe in.

The’re in the Chantry; fire boxing them in as an Archdemon screams overhead and every eye is on Mahanon as he straps his staff, a simple wooden rod, against his back. Armor already covered in the blood of the dying and the dead seems to weigh heavily on that small frame as the elf makes his rounds, stopping by each of them to whisper words of goodbye. However when those sea greens meet his no words come just a soft sad smile as a small hand brushes ash from his cheek with such tenderness that Varric was sure he’d never be able to reproduce it with words.

Snow. It buries Haven and he is sure it will soon do the same to the refugees as they huddle in mourning but he doesn’t join them. Stands as far back from the fire light as he can, staring into the dark night, hoping against hope to see that slim figure lurch from the shadows. He knows the Commander is beside him, knows that the both of them would stand there until dawn if need be because they were the last ones to see Mahanon. The last ones to see the slight shake of thin shoulders before the young elf was pushing open the Chantry doors and stepping out to meet his death head on. It was a quiet vigil broken by cries of joy as firelight danced on star soft locks.

Watching with helplessness as the bridge below their feet gives way and they tumble through the air for a frightening moment, Corypheus’ dragon circling overhead. The glow of the Fade as they struggle against demon after demon to reach the rift that will take them back to the waking world. The aching moments when he is on the other side and no one follows for the span of a dozen heartbeats. Hawke comes then, tumbling out of the rift to skid across the ground, but Varric still can’t breath not until the elf is there and the rip in the Fade is closed.

They are by the fire again and it is quiet but for the night owl that swoops through the dark beyond their camp. There is the soft touch against his hand, never asking for more than he can give and Varric nearly sobs.  _ I can’t. _ His own words echo in his ears nearly as loudly as the quiet response.  _ I know.  _ Mahanon’s smile is sad but understanding and they sit there until the morning light draws the other’s from their tents.

Sound rushes back to Varric as the body slides to a stop at the foot of the slope. He can hear the other’s cries change from victory to defeat, can hear as Bianca falls from nerveless fingers and then he is moving. He runs as fast as his stout legs will carry him, and while he is not the first one to reach the elf’s side he is not the last, and he charges full tilt into the crowd. He pushes everyone out of his way, so intent on reaching the small being that he doesn’t care who he hurts to get there.

Varric suddenly is at the center of the crowd with the elf not more then a step away and he finds that his feet will no longer carry him. He sinks to his knees and fucking crawls to the still form, heart beating like a war drum in his chest. With a touch just shy of worship he turns the mage onto his back and brushes silver locks from that face. His heart aches as he stares into Mahanon’s face, rough jagged lines break through the beautiful vallaslin in great Fade green wounds.

Eyes flutter before opening to look at him and a warm, sad smile spreads cracking cheeks.  _ I can’t,  _ echoes around them followed by,  _ I know. _ Varric brushes a tender finger against fragile skin and a soft, small hand settles against his cheek. He wants to close his eyes, to banish the creeping certainty from his mind, but he keeps his eyes locked on sea green refusing to lose the moment that hung between them. Pale lips part and the dwarf can hear the echo of the past on his ragged breath.

“Varric,” Mahanon says, sounding so very young and so very old. He pauses, drawing in a shaky breath and tears brim in his eyes. He presses a little more firmly into Varric’s cheek as if drawing strength from the touch. “Don’t write this as a tragedy.”   
  


The words fall hauntingly between them, hanging in the horror filled silence that surrounds them for a heart beat. Mahanon shatters, leaving a touch of ash and Fade on his cheek where their skin had met. Varric doesn’t move, doesn’t breath, doesn’t think as the wind whips past carrying away the greatest hero that he’d ever known.

A tear cuts through the ash on his cheek, followed swiftly by another. With every moment that passed, with every sob from behind him, his heart bleeds. He looked up, past where the body had lain, and he forced himself to his feet. He stumbles forward and no one stops him as he lifts Mahanon’s staff from the ground where it had fallen. No one stops him as he presses it close to his chest and no one stops him as he exits the group heading toward his fallen crossbow.

Varric can feel Bianca’s stare on him as he approaches, can feel it when he stands above her

and suddenly all he can think of is how much he hates her. Not just the crossbow that he’d carried across all of Thedas but for the dwarf who he’d named it after. He hated her as much as he had once loved her, with all of the fiery passions of youth and the tempered wisdom of age. It wasn’t fair; she’d broken his heart, shattered it into a million tiny pieces and left him to drift and he had still clung to her.

_ The only story he’d never tell. _

He’d lost himself so completely to her that there just hadn’t been room for soft, sad eyes and a gentle hand on his and his anger flared. It became white hot and burned like the Kirkwall Chantry, it cut like Hawkes knife through Ander’s back and stung like words left unspoken. Varric lifted a heavy boot and brought it crashing down on the crossbow, his heel crushing something until it snapped. He could hear the cries behind him, could feel hands pulling at his clothes but he ignored them and with very deliberate moves destroyed his once beloved weapon.

When he was done, and Bianca lay destroyed under his boot, he looked up. All around him stood Mahanon’s friends, the ones he’d loved with a passion, the ones he had selflessly given his life for more than once. None of them were looking at him however, every one of their eyes was locked on Bianca’s smashed carcass but he couldn’t find it in himself to care. So instead he cradled ironbark and dawnstone to his chest with infinite care.

He will never remember the ride back to Skyhold; dreams haunt even his waking mind, scenes cut from the fabric of memory and bittersweet fantasy meld until Varric is sure he is going mad. When they arrive at the fortress he breaks away, still carrying ironbark and dawnstone, he enters his small room. In the few short years the Inquisition had been around, the tiny stone room had become home. Light from the slitted window casts the room into twilight and he can spot his desk against the far wall, one seat in front of it and a second pressed against the wall just waiting for Mahanon to pull it forward.

Varric could see it from where he stood in the doorway, the scene unfolding. The small elf, barefoot as always, toes curling over the seat as he hugged his thin legs to his chest. Burnished silver falling in braids and waves as he pressed his cheek to his knee, watching and listening to the soft silence as the dwarf tried to craft some story. A soft laugh tickles his ear, making his heart skip and stutter in his chest. The phantom doesn’t look at him, just leans forward to ghost a hand across the memory’s shoulder in such a way that the dwarf can feel the burn of it across his skin.

A sob bubbles in his chest, utter despair creeping into his mind and Varric is almost swept away in it. After a time, an amount that seems longer than the shadows that have started to form, he steps forward and closes the door with a flick of his boot. He strides to the fire place, hand still gripping ironbark and dawnstone like it is the only thing keeping him standing, and lights the dry tinder still stacked in the hearth. He stands for another timeless moment in the growing fire light before turning to his bed, fully intent on falling into it’s loving hold and never rising from it again, when his eyes fell on the pictures that were pinned to the wall.

He walks forward with halting steps and raises aching fingers to the first. It’s Mahanon, alive and riding on the high of having defeated a dragon for the first time. It’s not perfect, drawn by Varric’s own hand and he’d be the first to tell you he was no artist, but as firelight flickers over the page he can see the heart stopping smile and the glint of something more in the eyes that stared back at him. The dwarf can’t bring himself to look away and feels the weight of a thousand regrets pressing down on his shoulders. Varric completely ignores the second picture, doesn’t even have to look to be able to see the woman who broke his heart so completely that he didn’t have enough pieces left to give to another.

_ I can’t... _

_ I know... _

When finally he could no longer bare to gaze at the face that made him heart sore, he sunk to his bed and wept. When he slept that night Varric did not dream as the men of Thedas did, for no dwarf could drift in the Fade, but instead he finds himself seeing what ifs and could have beens that seemed so real that when the morning comes his heart breaks again. He stays in Skyhold for three days, every corner of the keep alive with memories of a sweet and achingly gentle love and he knew that while Bianca had broken his heart, Mahanon had shattered him so completely that he was unsure if he’d ever recover.

Varric leaves Skyhold without telling anyone, ironbark and dawnstone strapped to his back as he heads toward some distant and unknown destination. He’d thought briefly of returning to Kirkwall but turns his pony in the opposite direction the first chance he gets knowing that he’d never be able to return to the Free Marches or to Skyhold. Too many memories and regrets hanging over his head to live in either place.

Varric doesn’t write again until many years later, so many that his hand has forgotten the feel of a quill and the scent of ink burns his nose. He is an old dwarf, far past the prime of his youth and with a heart and soul still sore with lost love. He knows his time is coming, can feel the press of it like an old friend but he has one more story to tell even as it breaks something inside him to write the words. Even in the dark hours of his twilight he can still hear the whisper in silence and feel the ash on his cheek.

_ Don’t write this as a tragedy. _

Varric arrived in New Haven just before the heart of summer. The bustling town was a far cry from the snow capped war camp of his memories and he found himself wandering the new sprawling avenue in a daze. Up he walked through the layers of the town until finally he stood in front of the rebuilt Chantry. He paused, leaning heavily on an old ironbark and dawnstone staff, to take in the view of the town from that spot. For the briefest second he was assaulted with ghostly images of the past and the old dwarf watched for some time as the denizens of his vision went about their lives.

He was just about to leave when he heard it. A sweet soft laugh that had haunted him for the better part of his long life. Varric turned and there was Mahanon, looking just as he remembered, leaning against the partially closed doors like he had been waiting there for a long while. A sob nearly took the old dwarf by surprise but he did not do anything to stem the tears that fell because he was finally where he had always wanted to be.

Mahanon smiled like the sun before slipping away into the Chantry. Varric followed behind the phantom, entering the building as fast as his aching knees would allow only to find the room empty. For the briefest second his heart broke all over again but he pushed it back and hobbled to a pew that lined the walls and sat down heavily. He closed his eyes and just sat there for an undetermined time until he felt a small warm hand touching his frail one. He laughed quietly but did not look because he feared the phantom would disappear again. 

When Mother Agnus entered the room it was a shock to find that an old dwarf had passed away in his sleep while sitting in the Chantry. They laid him to rest in the New Haven cemetery in a quiet little ceremony with no one the wiser as to his identity. The only clue an ironbark and dawnstone staff of incredible make that had been found next to him. Agnus almost kept it, if only because it was such a quality piece and it was not like the nameless dwarf would need it, but the second her hand touched it with intent to put it away she found that she could not do it. So they buried it too.

Five weeks later a book by the once famous Varric Tethras’ took the world by storm.

The last story he would ever tell.

_ I have known a few great heroes, but this story is about the one whose love for all people, even his greatest enemies, could rival the sun for its brilliance. I can remember that first moment I truly saw him; in the ruins of the Temple of Sacred Ashes, on the eve of the end of the world and caught in the glow of a Fade rift he appeared as the Elvhen gods of old. With hair like brushed moonlight and eyes that sparkled sea green in the flash of lightning that he unleashed Mahanon laughed in the face of the Fade demons that assaulted us.  _

_ Time has changed the memories, softened the edges and blurred the lines until I can hardly remember one moment from the next but I will attempt to convey the happenings of the second Inquisition in such a way that you might see into the heart of the greatest mortal I have ever known. A miracle wrapped in white robes that fell from the heart of the Fade itself to save us. _


End file.
